“Like that would have stopped these guys.” He sat on her desk and she pried a sheet of paper from under one of his cheeks. “Carter Damon ever get back to you?” She shook no. “Send flowers? Edible Arrangement? A bullet with your name on it?” This time she did sneak him the finger. He smiled. “There’s hope for you yet, Nikki Heat.”
“I tried calling Damon. No answer and his voice mail box is full. I put Malcolm and Reynolds on checking his gym, his barber, the usuals. They also ran his ATM and credit cards for activity. Nothing. He’s off the grid.”
“You think he might have just set you up, or was he your sniper?”
“At this point, anything’s possible. But why? Because I pissed him off at lunch at P.J. Clarke’s? And why the text apology?” Her phone rang. It was Detective Ochoa.
“Tell me the lab did not lose that brass.”
“No, Raley and I camped out to make sure of that. In fact, I’m calling because we scored some nice, juicy prints and we have an ID on them.”
“That’s fantastic,” she said. “Bring him in.”
“I’m not thinking he’s your man.”
She slumped back in her chair. “Let’s hear it.”
“Raley, you on?”
His partner came on, conferenced in. “Yeah, so here’s the deal. I met with the guy we ID’d. He runs an indoor gun range in the Bronx. He’s a decorated combat vet with a stellar record. Nice guy, too.”
“None of that rules him out as our sniper.”
“True, but this does. He got paralyzed by an IED in Iraq and he’s in a wheelchair.”
“Then how did his prints get on those shell casings?” Nikki pondered that for a moment. “Sometimes these shooting ranges recycle spent brass and reload them. Your vet friend. Does he sell reloads?”
“Uh, yeah, in fact I saw a sign. You think our sniper bought his ammo from him?”
“I’m hoping so, Rales. I’m also hoping his name shows up in his sales records.”
Shortly after Rook relocated to his squatter’s desk to type up some of his field notes from the previous day’s interviews, Sharon Hinesburg came in and turned on her computer. At first, Nikki tried to ignore her, but the scent of a fresh mani-pedi made her cave. She picked up the sheet of paper Rook had been sitting on and stepped over to her. “Good morning, Detective,” she said.
“We’ll see.” Hinesburg opened her desk drawer carefully so she wouldn’t trash her new manicure.
“Listen, I’ve got everyone else deployed so I need you to run a check on someone for me.” She handed her the page. “His name’s Mamuka Leonidze. He may be out of the country. Notes are all here.”
Hinesburg flashed a brief, condescending smile. “Sorry. I already have an assignment, direct from the precinct commander. The OCME gas truck?”
“And how’s that going, Detective?”
“Slow.” She handed the sheet of notes back. “Give it to Rook. He’s not doing anything. He’s just writing.”
The administrative aide called across the pen, “Detective Heat, Feller on your line. Says it’s important.”
Heat let go the standoff with Hinesburg for the moment and grabbed the call. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said, loud enough to get Rook to saunter over while she scrawled an address. “Be there in fifteen.” She hung up, tore the top sheet off the notepad, and said to him, “They found Carter Damon.”
“Where?”
“Floating in the East River.”
Lauren Parry had already set up shop on the East River piers off the FDR when Heat arrived. The traffic control uniform moved the sawhorse and waved her and Rook through, and she parked her Crown Vic between Randall Feller’s and the white OCME van. Detective Feller, who was a hundred yards out on the elbow of the L-shaped pier with Lauren and the body, spotted Heat and walked to the parking area to meet her. When he arrived, he pulled off his wraparounds and hooked the sunglasses by the temple in the V of his T-shirt. He wore a sober look, a stark contrast to his customary crime scene grabass face. Heat picked up on the change in him right off.